Beyond The Sea
by Lindsey Grissom
Summary: In a world where Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson are younger when war breaks out in 1914, two people far apart try to close the distance. Story told as a series of connecting drabbles.
1. daybreak

**Disclaimer:** The characters are not mine, although wouldn't that be nice?

**A/N:** This story is completely written, and I aim to post at least 1 drabble a day, perhaps more as the weekend is only a few hours away.

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><p><strong>_daybreak_<strong>

He kisses her cheek at the station, smoke billowing out behind him.

She tucks her handkerchief - lace trimmed with her initials embroidered at the corner, gifted by Her Ladyship five Christmases ago - into the pocket of his uniform jacket.

"Take care of them." He says, eyes over her shoulder where the other staff, the family, the village are all saying their own goodbyes.

She nods, knows he expects her to say the same back. She looks around him at the men and boys -too many boys - in their uniforms and says; "take care of yourself" instead.

He doesn't look as surprised as she would like, to find that she can be selfish sometimes. He meets her eyes again and if they were alone, she thinks he would kiss her, lips against lips. If they were anywhere else, she thinks she would pull him close, hold him against her and not let go.

This is why they have left their goodbyes to now, on the platform. She could not send him off to war with his honour broken and he could not leave her behind a fallen woman.

"It's time." He says after the whistle sounds, behind and around her cries break out and the carriages begin to fill, the station begins to empty.

His cheek is soft against her fingertips, shaven closely as always this morning.

"I'll have the sherry waiting." She says, feels the corner of his lips touch her palm as he smiles.

He is not the last to enter the train and she is not the last to turn away when the train is out of sight.

She wraps her arm around Daisy's waist, lets the girl hide her tearstained face against her chest.

The sun is still coming up on the horizon and the sky is clear. It's going to be a lovely day.

Such a shame, she thinks as she starts the walk back to Downton, that there will be so few able to enjoy it.


	2. bulletproof weeks

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, every little alert that popped up on my phone made the work day a little brighter! I hope this lives up to your comments.

This one's a little shorter still, so I'm posting the next one at the same time. It's been a while since I posted a chaptered-type story and I don't think I'm going to be able to drag the posting out like I intended.

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><p><strong>_bulletproof weeks_<strong>

If he were a younger man, he thinks he might find the excitement in fighting that those around him have. But then he has always been older than his years and he cannot remember a time when he might have enjoyed cramped barracks and mess hall meals.

The training is harsh and quick. They delayed conscription until they had no choice and now they rush them to the frontlines before they're ready.

He shares his bunk with men who will be _his men_ soon enough. They talk of the families left behind, the women.

When he talks at all, it's of _the_ family, of the staff. He does not have a woman. He has Mrs Hughes and he will not share her with anyone.

The last night, when they circled each other, finding jobs and chores at opposite ends of the house, he found himself in her parlour, fingers rifling soundlessly through her desk drawers.

He imagines he could have asked her for the photograph he took, knows now with the handkerchief he keeps in the pocket by his heart that she would not have denied him. But to ask would have been to admit something he has kept locked up inside for too long to let out lightly.

The drill sergeant calls them to attention and as he has before, he pushes away thoughts of her to fulfil his duties.

They will be away soon, fighting and killing - dying -, but he will have her letters then.

That will be something.


	3. faded letters

**_faded letters_**

She writes to him daily - even Saturdays and Sundays when the post runs differently or not at all. Knows from his replies that he gets her letters as a single package not even every week.

He tells her in a reply that she should save her words for one single letter a week, shouldn't waste her money on paper, ink and stamps for him.

She tells him it's her money to waste as she likes and she'll thank him to receive her letters however she wishes to send them.

He says he has missed her temper perhaps most of all. She cannot say that she misses simply _him_ the most, and so writes that the house is not the same without him.

She keeps his letters in a box by her bed, reads and re-reads them by candlelight each night.

The house continues on, but there is a pail about it. Upstairs they have sent too many cousins, fathers, sons and nephews, downstairs they are reminded daily of who is missing.

"I'm no Mr Carson." Mr Bates tells her one evening while they sip tea in her parlour.

"No," she agrees, and reaches out to pat his hand. "You are Mr Bates and there is nothing wrong in that."

_It is not enough_, his face tells her and as his fingers settle atop her own she cannot bring herself to disagree.


	4. french song

**A/N:** Again, a big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this, your comments mean the world to me! You might notice some more adjustments to canon in the the drabbles to come. Also, this takes place in 1917; I forgot to say that before.

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><p><strong>_french song_<strong>

The days are long, the nights longer still. He had always thought the continent to have a more temperate climate, has heard stories from passing travellers of heat and too much sun.

He finds France cold and wet, cannot abide the smell that seems to come from the very land itself. Cannot look at the fields and not think that they should be greener, flatter and more _English_.

They keep to villages and half-destroyed towns, have not yet been sent to trenches and muddy plains.

Everything he has, he keeps in the small pack on his back, or the pockets of his clothes. All he has that the army did not give him are her letters, handkerchief and picture.

It is a risk, keeping the letters, but Mrs Hughes is a clever woman and has never written anything that could cause him harm.

"New orders coming in, Mr Car-Captain." He has only Barrow with him from the house. Knows that William was sent with Mr Matthew. Has no idea where His Lordship has taken charge.

He did not promise to look out for them, but he had meant to regardless.

He claps a hand on Barrow's shoulder, feels the nervous thrum that resides in all of them beneath the skin. "Then we best get to it, Lieutenant." He says in the best Butler voice he can manage without England beneath his feet.

Barrow nods and straightens, falling into step behind him like he has uncountable times before.

He cannot look out for Mr Matthew for Lady Mary or His Lordship for Her Ladyship. Cannot protect William for Mrs Hughes. But he can settle Barrow when he must.

He knows enough of her unexplainable fondness for the man, to believe she would be comforted a little at least, to know he can do that.


	5. left behind

**A/N: **You people, you're all just so..._lovely._ I thought you deserved another chapter, before I take my little nagging labrador out for a walk.

I'm not sure if Mrs Hughes actually has a settee in her parlour, but I wanted her to have something a little more comfortable than her desk chair to sit in, in this one, so if she doesn't let's file this under poetic licence, please.

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><p><strong>_left behind_<strong>

She has taken to filling his log books herself. It should fall to Mr Bates as his other duties have, but she has been checking Mr Carson's work for more than one decade now. She is familiar with his methods, the quirks in his recordings that she has told him time and again make little sense to anyone outside of his own head. And she can read his handwriting, which seems to be what has Mr Bates handing the books over to her with thanks.

They are all of them working harder than they have before. For every man missing from the family, there is two or three gone from the staff, the suppliers and the delivery boys.

Continued rationing keeps her up late as she and Mrs Patmore work on menus that have little resemblance to anything they served before.

The house's finances send her to bed with warm milk and a headache powder more often than she cares to admit.

Tonight the books are balanced, the menus decided and the food ordered. She settles on her settee with his ledgers and a tray on her lap. It has been several weeks since his last letter and she tells herself and the others that it means nothing, that the post is unreliable here these days and heaven knows what it's like where he is.

She runs her fingers across the names and numbers written in his familiar hand, the tips coming away slightly blackened. Prays that she is correct and that he has written to her and will do so again.

Her door flies open as she inks the pen and she looks up into Anna's reddened face. "Sorry, Mrs Hughes but the paperboy is here about payment and Mr Bates is still not back from Ripon."

"Not to worry Anna. I dare say these books will still be here when I get back."

She leaves the tray on her seat, follows the ladies maid out to the back door.

The lines between roles are becoming more blurred each day. With the London season cancelled again, Her Ladyship is considering a dinner party before the month is out. The maids will have to serve.

Mr Carson will hate that, when she tells him.


	6. when a bee stings

**A/N: **I am so very very bad at keeping to a plan. One drabble a day? What was I thinking? Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed the last few installments, you're making this posting so exciting for me! There will be some minor time leaps as we go on, but I promise, nothing Fellowes-like.

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><p><strong>_when a bee stings_<strong>

Their first victory comes after he has been away for almost 6 months. They liberate a small town and he does not think a Frenchman has ever been so pleased to pin an English flag to a town hall wall.

There is a party - there are many parties, but he is only convinced to attend this one - and beer and wine flow. He is transported back to the stage as his men laugh and sing and trip over their feet to impress the local girls. Girls who must think them uncultured and unrefined compared to the men they have known, but who indulge them because today they are heroes.

He does not feel like celebrating. He is happy, of course, that they have succeeded - he does enjoy a job well done after all - but the cost of the victory feels too high.

The others, Captains and Commanders alike, tell him with slaps on the back and full pint glasses slid across the table, that it could have been far worse. He does not doubt them. The lists of the dead and wounded are short today but the lists still exist and that seems to be enough to keep his spirit down.

Young Jeffries spins past, a girl in his arms. She has black hair, not auburn, is tall and lithe, has green eyes not blue and yet in that moment of seeing her, he has never missed Elsie Hughes more.

He knows without doubt that were she here, she would have him fighting a smile within minutes. Has done so before and on better days only needs to smile herself and his mood lifts.

He stays a while longer, turns down the few offers to dance that come his way. His thoughts are full of her and he drinks perhaps more than he should before returning to the little inn they have procured for the few days they will remain here.

He writes to her that night, addresses it to _'Dearest Elsie'_ for the first time, does not say more in the letter than he has before, signs it _'Yours, Charles' _and hands it to the boy at the front desk to post.

He does not worry that he has overstepped an unwritten rule, does not think tonight, that she will mind the change.

It could be the final drink he had before he left the hall, it could be the truth.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	7. unravelling

**A/N:** I've remembered why I used to be a more prolific writer when I posted almost exclusively to this site many (many) years ago. You are all just so lovely and encouraging! (I've also remembered the obsessive watch for reviews, and can't help but think that having access on a smartphone every hour of the day is not really helping me beat that addiction this time around). I'm trying to respond to all your lovely reviews individually, but still; thank you everyone!

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><p><strong>_unravelling_<strong>

She has taken to knitting.

It is slow and in the 3 months she has persevered she has managed to finish only one unmatched pair of socks.

Her poor progress has as much to do with her limited skill as it has to do with her limited time.

Mr Mason has promised that when she gets the hang of it, she will be able to knit without a light, as Mrs Mason had often done.

She tells no one, but this is why she keeps on with it.

She finds as the months draw on - it is closer to a full year he has been gone now, than half - that she is awake more than she is asleep at night.

She cannot imagine more months passing where she sits up and watches the night slowly brighten to day, without going mad.

She does not dwell on the dreams that wake her. Cannot if she is to remain at Downton and not follow after him, grab him and pull him away from the war - a childish fantasy but then hours alone in darkness will do that to even the most sensible of people.

And so she has taken up knitting and will continue with it until she can pull the needles and wool to her at night when she wakes, and not need to waste precious candle wax to see by.

She has signed more than three dozen letters as _'Elsie' _now, has received five signed _'Charles'_.

She is scared to ask him what made him change so suddenly an address he has been using in letters and speech since she became Housekeeper.

Is afraid, but also does not honestly believe it matters. He will have his reasons, he is Mr Carson and does nothing without great thought, but it is only important to her that the change has happened and that he has not as yet reversed the decision.

Besides, no doubt war does strange things to a man, and a little informality between two people who have been friends for so many years, is hardly the worst that could happen.

She is working on a second pair of socks now, black and thick, as close knit as she is capable of. She will send them, when she is done. Winter is drawing in now and his feet have long hurt him on cold nights.

They will not provide the comfort of a hot-water bottle but they are what she has in her power to give him.

She drops a stitch and curses, she will need more miracles than she perhaps deserves if she is to send these to him before Summer comes around again.


	8. happy golden days of yore

**A/N: **It is currently a stupidly warm day for being Autumn and so of course you get the Christmas installment, why not? Thank you again to everyone reading.

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><p><strong>_happy golden days of yore_<strong>

Secretly, he has always loved Christmas.

He loves the trees in the corner of the room, decorated different each year. Loves the stories of Father Christmas and how eager every child is to be good as December arrives.

When the young Ladies were small, he had often dressed as the jolly man for the family party. He would sit with them on his lap and give them a present each that came from Father Christmas, but was paid for with money from his pocket.

Elsie arrived as Head Housemaid just before Christmas. She confides in her most recent letter that she had thought him too serious at first. That it had not been until she watched him through the small gap in the library door - and here he can kindly keep his words about her curiosity to himself, thank you - with Lady Sybil on his lap, Ladies Edith and Mary standing at each of his shoulders and a great smile on his face as he hunted in his sack for their gifts, that she had realised how much more to him than The Butler there is.

He remembers that she had smiled at him that night at dinner.

The first of many smiles passed up and down the staff table between them.

She has sent him socks. He is not surprised that they fit him well - she has been darning for him for years - but that she has made them herself.

She says it is a new hobby and that she will improve. It's not false modesty; the seam at the toe is a little crooked on one and the heel on the other.

When he writes his thank you, he does not tell her that they have come at a good time now that he has his orders to move closer to the trenches - cannot and would not even if it were safe to.

He asks instead for a favour. If she has time, can she please make something to give the young Ladies. She can take money for wool and wrapping from the little he left in the tin beneath his bed.

He picks a flower from one of the rapidly freezing fields and presses it between the pages of his letter to her. If he were home he would buy her a scarf he thinks, something to keep her as warm as she is trying to keep him.

He gets her reply a week after Christmas has passed. That Father Christmas has once again favoured the young Ladies with a single gift each, delivered to the foot of their beds on Christmas Eve. She writes that she does not expect that they will ever wear the gloves, but that he would have enjoyed the laughter that filled the House Christmas morning.

He clutches the letter to his chest and stares at the great muddy rips in the fields around him.

He is so very glad that women are not made to fight.


	9. auld lang syne

**A/N:** Okay, I'm afraid that this is the last installment for the weekend. Then it will be either one or two drabbles a day until we're done. You can blame my work for that. I don't mind writing on my phone there on my breaks, but I flinch at logging on through the PCs and posting fic from my office. This part brings us about half-way word count wise, although the next few parts are individually a little longer in length. Once again thank you to all my loyal and incredibly supportive readers, your words mean the world to me!

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><p><strong>_auld lang syne_<strong>

It seems easier after Christmas. She hates that she thinks that, but is aware that they are all feeling it.

There had been a painful anticipation before the holiday; full of dread and fear to face this first Christmas without them - they say first, pray it is the only and know better now than to believe the promises given of an end soon.

But after the gifts and food, the songs and tears it seems easier to get on. Somehow they are getting used to the gaps and empty places.

Mrs Crawley and Lady Sybil have spoken to Doctor Clarkson, and Her Ladyship has almost decided to give permission to have the hospital open at the Abbey.

They are all ready now to have something to do that feels like they are helping in some way, contributing to the efforts their men are making.

They have been so lucky so far; Downton is perhaps not happy, but they have not had occasion to go into mourning. So many have.

She heard from William a week ago, he is still with Mr Matthew, although he was careful not to say too much more.

His Lordship writes often and has been to the house once since donning his uniform.

Charles has gone to the frontline. He has not told her so, but she knows him well enough to read between the lines of his letters.

He doesn't wish for her to worry and so she will not tell him what she suspects.

She keeps her words as light as she can, tells him stories that she hopes will make him smile if he cannot laugh.

She finally tells him that the maids are serving dinner to the family regularly now. His last letter had been too melancholy, he is thinking too much and this will give him something to bluster about.

She closes her letter just before it is time to ring the dinner gong. She will not tell him yet that she has started to serve too.

She wants to distract him from dark thoughts, she does not want to push him over the edge.


	10. bring on the wonder

**A/N: **I'm trying to post this, watch the new DA ep and get to work. I think I'm going to fail at one of those. Oh well, who needs work anyway? I think you're going to like this installment...

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><p><strong>_bring on the wonder_<strong>

They acknowledge Valentine's day a week late. The day itself holds little meaning without the cards and letters and so they think of it only when the post arrives.

He has settled into this world of dirt and bombs and hates it even more than he could have predicted.

He is cold constantly and there is not a day where one of his men is not sick. He himself succumbed to the fever a few weeks ago and though it is more than likely that he said something in his fevered ranting that he should be embarrassed by, Barrow tells him that he has nothing to worry about.

He is honest enough with himself these days to know who he would have imagined with him, what he might have said to this imaginary Elsie Hughes. However, in all his machinations and despicable plots, Mr Barrow has not once hurt the Housekeeper and so he is not as worried as he perhaps should be.

Her letters come packed together as they have from the start, still one for every day. It is a wonder she manages to think of something to fill them all with without repeating herself. But then, they have always found topics to discuss. Perhaps it is even easier now that she does not have his own side of any debate to deal with.

He knows the one intended for the 14th from the rose tint to the envelope and paper. The sight sets his heart beating faster in his chest and although he does not rush through her other letters, he feels as though he is working towards that one.

It reads almost like any other of her letters and he is not disappointed, but his reaction does give him something to think about later.

But at the bottom, just above her name, she writes that she misses him, that he must stay safe because she will need him to return in one piece. She says that she is still waiting with the sherry.

She signs it _'love, Elsie'_.

He has a lot to think about. It's a good thing that he has so much time for that right now.


	11. reckless one

**A/N: Oh my, all of your lovely lovely reviews! I will respond to them, I promise. But I only have a few minutes before I need to start getting dinner ready and it was either a new drabble, or replies. I didn't think you would mind too much if I went with this:**

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><p><strong>_reckless one_<strong>

The hospital keeps them all busy. It also breaks down more of those barriers between roles and class that the war has slowly been wearing away at.

Mrs Crawley can be seen covered in blood and sickness as often as Lady Sybil and Ethel.

Lady Edith came to her after a week and asked if perhaps there was something she could do to help. She does not know why the girl came to her and not Mrs Crawley or her own sister, but she mentions that she has started to sit with the patients when she has time. That they seem to benefit from a quiet presence and a hand to hold, if that's something the young Lady thinks she can offer.

She does not say that she finds as much comfort in those few minutes she spends in the wards as she suspects the soldiers do.

The world is not run on checks and balances and yet when she holds a young man's hand and talks him through his pain, she feels it may tip the scales a little. That if one of her boys - the Lord forbid - ever needs the same, they will get it because of what she is doing here.

Charles would shake his head at her sentimental thinking, but he would bring her a cup of tea and not try to drag her away until she was done.

"You have someone still out there, Mrs Hughes?"

Today her hand is held by a man who has told her he is a farmer, with a wife and two little girls who are making the trip to Yorkshire to see him. Doctor Clarkson is sure he will regain full use of his leg once the bone has fixed. There is nothing he can do for the blindness.

She smiles at him, even though he cannot see her and squeezes his fingers between her own.

"Many of the young men from the staff are fighting, Mr Beck."

He shakes his head, tugs at her hand to draw her closer.

"Someone else." He says and she realises that his first had not really been a question.

She hesitates only a moment, her voice quiet in the busy ward.

"Mr Carson. He was-_is_ the Butler here. He left for France in early Spring last year." She pauses, has to gather strength to speak through the lump in her throat. "He is very dear to me."

There is silence while she blinks away the tears that have sprung to her eyes - she has not cried since the first month when she discovered he had taken a photograph of her with him, she will not do so now.

Mr Beck squeezes her fingers and she looks down at the crooked smile that has settled on his lips.

"And you will hold his hand when he returns, won't you Mrs Hughes? Whether he asks for it or not."

Her laugh draws the eyes of Lady Sybil and Mrs Crawley and she waves off their looks, happy that they too are now smiling as they turn away.

She was born a farmer's daughter and is not insulted by his cheek. "Yes," she says, laughter still in her voice. "I do believe I will."

And he will enjoy it, she thinks, whether it is proper or not.


	12. higher love

**A/N: **Okay, I'm breaking the promise I made to myself _again_ and posting a third installment tonight. Only I want to post a couple tomorrow because they're all quite closely connected (and also, I'm waiting quite impatiently for the new ep of Major Crimes to finish recording on my tivo so I can watch it without adverts).**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>_higher love_<strong>

He had thought himself in love once before. And perhaps he was; he still remembers Alice with great fondness mixed with the pain and that must mean something.

For years after her rejection he married himself to his work, the house. And he was, if not happy, then content, satisfied, if he could not be fulfilled.

And then Mrs Whitely hired a new Head Housemaid.

Elsie is beautiful to him, he has no reason to lie to himself about that any longer. She can still turn heads when she drops the Housekeeper uniform and mask. But in those early years she could have had a suitor from every village in the country and they would each have still felt glad of the privilege.

She had not, of course, and she was quick to turn away any man or boy who tipped their cap at her - kindly and gently, but with that Scottish determination that told them she would not be changing her mind. And he had been pleased, had nodded his head and congratulated himself on choosing her as a friend, someone sensible like himself who would always put her work first.

And so he had fallen in love with her, quite without any encouragement from her and very much without his own consent.

He cannot know when her own heart was turned in his direction and although they have both taken to signing their letters with love, they have not discussed it at all.

He is not worried by the uncertainty of it, no doubt she'll tell him one day, when he is in a mood or she wants to make him smile.

They are not young anymore, and with age he has found peace with patience - but only with her, he will still require duties to be carried out with due haste.

He has thought on it between the gunfire in the - too close - distance, the grenades and gas attacks nearby and decided, one night when he imagined that he may actually see his way to the other side of this war, that he will ask her to marry him.

He will not return to a life where he is just Mr Carson to her and she is Mrs Hughes, cannot picture a world where he can walk beside her, both of them knowing where their hearts lie, and not take her hand in his, kiss her cheeks and her lips and hold her close when she cries.

He fancies himself a practical man, and so he has thought about the consequences; his Lordship may ask them to leave, they will have to move away, find other employment. But he has some savings put by and knows that she has too. They are known by name for their work at Downton and would find positions somewhere in time. He would miss Lady Mary but...he needs her. Has for a long time and so he has decided.

He has not, in all his thoughts, considered that she may say no.

He should be wary after his hand was rejected the first time, but he is not. They may not have spoken of it, but she would not have written it if she had not meant it.

He clasps his rifle in hand, secures the hat on his head and turns to his troop.

"Right men, we go for one more push."

The gunfire stops and he raises the silver whistle to his lips.


	13. before the worst

**A/N: **Sorry. But we are not done yet, just...yeah. Sorry. I'll post more after work tonight!

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><p><strong>_before the worst_<strong>

His letters stop.

It is far from the first time it's happened and she fills the days with letters of her own. Answers questions in them he hasn't yet asked. She knows from experience that when they make it through the post to her, she will have more than one to read and she will look forward to that.

The weeks pass without word and the letters she writes get shorter. She hears from William and Mrs Patmore's sister tells the cook of the terrible fate of her nephew and still she hears nothing from him.

The face she puts on for the others is braver than she feels and her heart fills with dread more and more each day.

She busies herself with chores she hasn't had to do since she was a young housemaid. She scrubs the fireplaces and beats the carpets herself, takes down the mirrors and polishes them until her cloth squeaks against the glass and at night she falls asleep from exhaustion and gets a few hours rest before the dreams wake her and she starts her day again.

She is cleaning the pantry when little Jimmy the hall-boy says Her Ladyship has called for her.

She wipes her hands on a clean cloth and tucks stray hairs back into place on her way to the library.

She thinks this is about the hospital and she hasn't finished running the numbers but they can probably take another 20 before they will have to open more of the bedrooms and think about employing more temporary staff.

It is not Her Ladyship who calls for her to enter at her knock, but His Lordship and at his voice she feels the Earth shift beneath her as though it has ground to a sudden halt.

He is still in his uniform. His eyes are older, his cheeks missing the glow of healthy living. Her Ladyship stands at his side, her small fingers wrapped around his elbow.

Whatever is said next, she can be glad that he has returned if only for his wife and daughters' sakes.

Mrs Crawley stands beside them, the Dowager perched on an armchair.

"Who?" She says, the word torn from her lips against years of training. It could be William, Mr Barrow. Could be any of the other young men from the stables or the gardens and they would still have called on her first. But she knows in the silence from him this last month, knows that it is -

"Carson."

- and the world shifts into motion again beneath her, fast enough that she stumbles for balance.

Fingers grip her elbow and waist, hold her up and she looks at Mrs Crawley beside her and nods her thanks. She cannot bring herself to smile.

The fingers try to push her towards the seats, but she shakes her head, locks her knees and steadies herself. She pulls away and stands with her arms wrapped around her waist.

She nods for His Lordship to continue and focuses on his words; only now understands that it is Thomas too. They are missing, His Lordship says, the whole troop. She does not understand some of the terms he uses, but knows that he is being careful to let her think there is still some hope they will be found alive.

He tells her that he will tell the staff, once he has told the rest of the family. And even though that is really something she should do herself, she thanks him and leaves before they try again to make her sit.

Outside the library she stumbles and braces herself against the wall. Her heart is pounding, breath coming in harsh gasps and there are tears in her eyes she will not be able to stop. And so she runs, through the front doors and down the stairs, around the house to the gardens and then through those to the lake.

In the spot where she and Mr Bates threw that awful contraption away a few years - a lifetime - ago, her knees give out and she collapses onto the dirt. Her palms land flat against the ground and she leans forward on them, keeps her head down, her tears turning the dirt to mud.

In her head she says that he is missing. Just missing. But with each catch in her breathing and each silent sob she cannot make her body believe it.

It was always going to come down to this; from that moment at the station when she wanted him to look out for himself above anyone else, she had known that one day she would be crying over Mr Carson's absence.

They would have married after the war, she is sure of it. They would have been happy together.

Mr Bates finds her there long after her tears have dried, his own eyes red-rimmed and bleak.

"He will be back." She says as he stops beside her, leans against his cane and follows her eyes out across the water. He doesn't pretend that she could be talking about Thomas.

"Of course he will. He wouldn't leave," he pauses on the _'you'_ he won't say, but that she hears all the same, "Downton."

She nods, reaches out and pats his arm.


	14. another side now

**A/N: ***Peaks out from hiding* I'm sorry! But it had to be done, and most of you kind of figured it was going that way so...to make up for it, you get two installments at once! And this one's a little different from the others, you'll see.  
>Huge thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing, you're seriously making my work days exciting!<p>

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><p><strong>_another side now_<strong>

He has been shot. The bullet pierced his hand; in one side and out the other. It hurts, of course, but it could be far worse and although he will have to wear a glove when he returns to Downton, he is aware how lucky he is _to be_ returning.

They release him as soon as they tire of his attempts to escape. The nurses won't answer his questions, the doctors are too busy for him to ask and so with the bandage wrapped around his palm and looped up his wrist, he leaves the ward and begins his search.

He could leave. Should do, in fact. Should return to England, invalided out and look at his prospects. See what Miss O'Brien has been up to in his absence and begin another scheme that will get them out of service - not _together_, but at the same time.

Instead he takes the hospital one floor at a time, looking for a familiar body in unfamiliar clothes, indomitable eyebrows and a gruff voice.

Mr Carson is not and never will be a friend - and if the former Butler knew for certain the thoughts that go through his mind when he sees the young men that come to call on the Ladies of Downton, then he would surely be disgusted - but he has been his Captain in this Hell that France has become. Has been a comforting tone and a steady hand at his back. Pushed him down when the shots rang out and covered him as best he could while they charged.

He owes the man and he does not like unpaid debts.

- and he has seen how Mr Carson lights up with each bundle of letters from home. Has smelt on the pages the scent of vanilla and polish that is familiar to anyone who has worked under Mrs Hughes. He will find Mr Carson and see that he gets home because he will pay off that debt, but he will do it for her too, because he could not face her everyday and know that he did not _try_ -

He pushes open another door, closes his ears to the sounds of sickness and pain and heads for the closest bed.


	15. an ending

**A/N: **Don't be too concerned about the title, there's still three more parts to go, promise!

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><p><strong>_an ending_<strong>

The war ends in November 1918. Charles and Thomas have been missing for two months.

On the 11th she stands with the staff behind the family as the announcement is made by His Lordship.

Mr Matthew is back, William with him, both injured but so very much still alive.

The House celebrates that night. She smiles for the first time in a while and is glad that it's over, that the men can come home now victorious and safe.

It is later, when everyone else is asleep, that she slips into his pantry and curls up in his chair, her hair braided down her back. Her nightgown and robe are not warm enough for the cold night, but she feels warmer just for being in this place.

"Two months, Charles. You missed it by two _blasted_ months."

Mr Bates has not felt comfortable enough to make any changes here, has in fact spent more time in the servant's hall and the boot room. She told him at the beginning that he was welcome here, but now she cannot be gladder that he sought out space elsewhere.

It has been almost eighteen months since Charles was in here but she imagines she can still pick up the scent of him. She presses her nose to the worn fabric around her and breathes in deep, and there he is, sunk into the very furniture of the house.

"You silly, silly man." She whispers and allows a single tear to dampen the seat back.

Footsteps in the hallway, the slap of bare feet against stone have her turning her face to the door as it opens. She does not straighten up as Lady Mary enters.

The young woman has a cushion and cover with her and settles on the floor in front of the chair, rests her back against Elsie's curled legs. The silence between them familiar and long.

"He would hate this, wouldn't he?"

She hums her agreement, fingers reaching out to brush against dark brown hair.

"Oh he would be appalled with both of us, M'Lady; you for being down here after dark, me for allowing a Lady of the house to sit on the floor."

The head in front of her nods, tipping back after into the fingers in her hair. "I think he would be just as upset if I let you sit here instead."

And he would, dear man, and would get himself worked up trying to decide on a better solution with neither of them willing to take the second chair.

What Charles does not know, what neither she nor Lady Mary have ever told him, is that many years ago a dark haired young girl would slip into this room in the night, curl up against this chair and wait to be found. She does not know what would bring her down from the maid's quarters to this room on those nights; maybe something she saw in the girl's face before dinner. But she would come and find her and talk her back to sleep with tales of Highland mountains and the magic men who work the farms. They never spoke of it come light.

"Tell me a story Mrs Hughes." Says the woman who is too old to need them.

"In the mountains, at the edge of any map, you will find a sign that says 'here be monsters'. This is where the dragons live..."

Perhaps though, there are times when no one is too old to need the guarantee of a happy ending.


	16. the long way home

**A/N: **This isn't quite the part you're all waiting for, but it should put your minds at ease at least! Thanks again for everyone who reviewed and read and favourited. As if I could really keep the Butler from returning to Downton...

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><p><strong>_the long way home_<strong>

His first steps back on English soil are unsteady, much as all his steps have been since he woke up to Mr Barrow's face and a nurse talking to him in French. From what they could gather, he will be fine. And indeed, he has seen English doctors since who have assured him the same. He will not even suffer a limp when he has finished healing.

But his continued good health was not assured even days ago, his age and injuries putting a strain on his heart that they could not be sure would not kill him as the bullets did not.

He had been unconscious for more than a month, sedated for another and until he was sure that he would survive, he would not allow Barrow to tell anyone at home of his survival.

The war has been over no longer than a week and he did not want Elsie trying to come to him - and he has no doubts that she would have, would have sailed the boat herself if she had to - only to find him dead or worse; to not make it all the way herself.

She will have words for him, he has no doubt and he is not at all comfortable with the deception now that all has turned out well. But if it had gone another way, he would never have forgiven himself for hurting her any worse.

He follows Mr Barrow to the car that will take them to Yorkshire and Downton. Settles in with a grimace and holds his arm as the stitches shift and pull at his skin.

He will suffer from headaches from time to time and might find that his hearing suffers as he ages. He will feel the wet English weather in his shoulder and thigh and it will take a few more weeks for his hair to grow back where it was shaved.

But he is alive and on his way _home_.

He has thought some more about his future, now that he has had more time. Oh, he will still ask Elsie to marry him, but he will ask His Lordship that they can stay on. Will take his time and court her properly before any proposal passes his lips.

His brush - almost a blow - with death has given him a new outlook on life and where he thought they were past the young blush of love, he thinks now that it would be a shame to deprive them both of that excitement.

He dozes off a few minutes later and wakes up when Mr Barrow shakes his uninjured shoulder.

Downton Abbey grows before them as they make the last few miles along the road. They had intended to drive up to the door and greet the family first, as they should. But now that he can see the house, he wants nothing more than to see Elsie's face. He could stand in the hall or the library with His Lordship and Lady Mary but he would not be home.

Mr Barrow argues at first, but then eventually agrees when he offers enough change for a drink at the Grantham Arms.

The car turns towards the village and drives away and he starts walking, as fast as he can manage. He is almost home.


	17. the man in the moon

**A/N: **Oh my! All of your responses to the last chapter just blew me away! Thank you all so much. I couldn't kill Mr Carson, he's much too fun to play with and I think Mrs Hughes would have come after me if I had. Now, for a little Mrs Hughes moment before Mr Carson turns up. I'll post the last installment in a couple of hours after I've cooked and eaten my very English dinner. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>_the man in the moon_<strong>

Dinner tonight is shorter than usual. They are still on rations and will be for some time, but this week they have tried to make the food closer to the meals they had _before_.

Mr Matthew has taken his first steps, even though his doctors were not sure he ever would, and insisted he was well enough to join the family for dinner.

He could not - Mrs Crawley, Lady Mary and Miss Swire had all insisted on separate occasions to herself and Mrs Patmore - stay at the table for very long. Doctor Clarkson added to the instructions with a list of foods Mr Matthew is encouraged to eat.

She had served, as did her maids and The Dowager sneered only the once before biting her lip. It is their luck that the old bat adapts just as the times change again.

But now she is finished, the dishes are cleared and washing and she has a moment spare to sit outside before she must see to the ledgers and books.

The moon is bright tonight, keeping it lighter outside than it should be in November. The world seems quieter, as though it knows that a war is over and peace is coming.

She thinks of him now, pulls out her memories of him from the places she has been tucking them away all day. He would like that Mr Matthew is showing so much improvement. He would not like Miss Lavinia Swire and the way that Lady Mary watches them together, her breaking heart in her eyes. She wonders what he might say about Mr Matthew's own wandering eyes.

"Someone is going to get hurt in the end." She whispers to the moon - to him -, the words leaving her lips in white wisps of warm air. "I don't think it's going to be your blessed Lady Mary."

She has a few more moments before Mr Bates or one of the maids comes for her. She will talk to him for just a little longer.


	18. watch it begin again

**A/N: **Well, here we are at the end (or beginning, depending on who you ask). It's been a wild ride and you people have just been so amazing, you've reminded me why I got into writing in the first place all those years ago. If you'll have me, I don't think I'm ready to leave this fandom just yet. I have one or two things in the pipeline, including a little ficlet addition to drabble 15 (_an ending_). Thank you, all of you. Please enjoy:

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><p><strong>_watch it begin again_<strong>

He still does not have more than his uniform and his pack and the walking stick in his hand. But somehow he still has his favourites of her letters and the socks. There is something a bit too sentimental about that; discovering them in his pack, tucked beneath his cot at the hospital had brought him near to tears.

He steps off the road as it opens up into the driveway. Takes to the grass and travels around the Abbey. It is nearly evening and dinner will have been served and cleared away. The Ladies tucked away in the sitting room, the men - those that have returned and he will find out soon, after he has seen her - retired to His Lordship's study or the library for drinks and a game of cards.

The staff will be waiting now for the final calls when the family retires for the night. And perhaps she will be in her parlour, or in the corridor outside the kitchen and he will surprise her there.

He rounds the house and stops.

She is close enough that the deep breath he takes in smells of her and it is he who is surprised.

She has not seen him, her eyes closed, head tilted back against the wall. He has not seen her sit on this bench for almost two years.

There had been a risk, however slight, that the Elsie Hughes he has carried in his heart was not the true one. That he would find her less than he had built her up to be in his head these last years.

He should not have worried.

The moonlight bounces off her hair, making it glow like a fading flame.

His eyes take in the brush of her lashes against her cheek, the gentle slope of her nose and slight tuck up of her top lip.

Her eyes open as he watches and from the side he can see the blue of them shining.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to go over the wine lists now, Mr Bates."

Oh and her voice. How has he survived without it this long? Her letters have sounded in his head with her particular lilt but that was nothing like it is now, thickened with tiredness.

"I think Mr Bates can wait a few more minutes, Mrs Hughes."

She jolts, her body lifting off the bench as she turns to him.

"Mr Carson." She says and raises a trembling hand to cover her mouth, her voice a plea. "Charles."

"I'm here, Elsie." She takes a step and then another, as unsteady as he had been this morning. He does not feel that way now.

Her fingers are cold against his cheek. It has been almost two years, but his skin has not forgotten the feel of hers as she traces the cut at his temple.

She crumples and he gathers her close, his stick falling forgotten to the ground as his arms circle her, hold her closer to him than he has ever dared to before. His stitches twinge but he does not care one whit.

"You're home." She says, her breath such warm relief on his neck, her fingers curled against his back.

_'Yes, I am'_ he thinks and says; "marry me, Elsie" into her hair instead. All of his elaborate plans disappearing into the night.

He has lived without this woman and he will not do so again. He will give her the courtship they both deserve, but he will do it as her husband, her hand wrapped tightly in his.

"Yes." She says, into his throat, his jaw, and then finally, pressed from her lips to his. "Yes."

_**End.**_

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><p>Of course, that's not to say I won't keep dipping back into this world every now and again. Just to see how they're getting on and such.<p>

I hope this ending lived up to everyone's expectations. This story was all about the distances between them and well, now there aren't any.


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